A Dedicated Man (6 page)

Ramsden nodded. ‘Of course, of course . . .’

‘What about you? Will you be all right?’

‘Yes, I’ll be fine. It’s just the shock. I’ve known Harry for more than ten years.’

‘Would it be possible to talk to you again about this? Just to get some background, that kind of thing?’

‘Yes, I suppose so. When?’

‘The sooner the better, really. Tuesday morning, perhaps? We might know a bit more by then.’

‘I’ll be at work. Fisher and Faulkner. We’re not terrifically busy at the moment. If you want to drop by . . .’

‘Yes, that’ll be fine.’

Banks asked directions to the publishers, then left Ramsden and returned to Eastvale by the quickest route. At the station, an invitation to call at Superintendent Gristhorpe’s for tea
awaited him. He phoned Sandra, who wasn’t at all surprised at his absence, checked that no important news had come in while he had been at Ramsden’s, and set off for Helmthorpe for the
second time that day. It was only three o’clock, and, as he wasn’t expected at Gristhorpe’s until five, he would have plenty of time to see how the locals were coping.

The Helmthorpe police station was a converted cottage on a narrow cobbled road that forked from the eastern end of the High Street towards the river. There, Weaver, who was running off more
copies of the request for information, told him that three constables were still making door-to-door enquiries along Hill Road and another had been dispatched to the campsite.

That was the biggest headache, Banks realized. They would have to try and find out who had been staying at the campsite on Saturday night. Most of the campers would have moved on by now and it
would be damn near impossible to get comprehensive or reliable information.

There was also the press to deal with. Besides Reg Summers of the local weekly, two other reporters were still hanging around outside the station, as Hatchley had warned, thrusting their
notebooks at everyone who entered or left. Banks certainly liked to maintain good relations with the press, but at such an early stage in the investigation he could give them little of value.
However, to gain and keep their goodwill – because he knew they would be useful eventually – he told them what he could in as pleasant a manner as possible.

At twenty to five, he left Weaver in charge and drove off to see Gristhorpe. On the way, he decided he would visit the Bridge that evening to see what he could get out of Steadman’s
cronies. More, he hoped, than he’d managed to pick up so far.

Banks pulled
into the rutted drive at five to five and walked towards the squat stone house. Gristhorpe lived in an isolated farmhouse on the north dale side above the
village of Lyndgarth, about halfway between Eastvale and Helmthorpe. It was no longer a functioning farm, though the superintendent still held on to a couple of acres where he grew vegetables.
Since his wife had died five years ago, he had stayed on there alone, and a woman from the village came up to do for him every morning.

The building was too austere for Banks, but he could see it was ideally suited to the environment. In a part of the country windswept and lashed by rain much of the year, any human dwelling had
to be built like a fortress to provide even the most basic domestic comforts. Inside, though, Gristhorpe’s house was as warm and welcoming as the man himself.

Banks knocked at the heavy oak door, surprised at how the hollow sound echoed in the surrounding silence, but got no answer. On such a fine afternoon, he reasoned, he was more likely to find
Gristhorpe in his garden, so he walked around the back.

He found the superintendent crouching by a heap of stones, apparently in the process of extending his wall. The older man got to his feet, red-faced, at the sound of footsteps and asked,
‘Is that the time already?’

‘It’s almost five,’ Banks answered. ‘I’m a few minutes early.’

‘Mmm . . . I seem to lose all track of time up here. Anyway, sit down.’ He gestured towards the rough grass by the stones. The superintendent was in his shirtsleeves, his ubiquitous
Harris tweed jacket lying on the grass beside him. A gentle breeze ruffled his thick mop of silver hair. Below it, a red pockmarked face, upper lip all but obscured by a bristly grey moustache,
grinned down at Banks. The oddest thing about Gristhorpe’s appearance – and it was a facet that disconcerted both colleagues and criminals alike – was his eyes. Deep set under
bushy brows, they were those of a child: wide, blue, innocent. At odds with his six-foot-three wrestler’s build, they had been known to draw out confessions from even the hardest of villains
and had made many an underling, caught out in a manufactured statement or an over-enthusiastic interrogation, blush and hide in shame. When all was well though, and the world seemed as fresh and
clear as it did that day, Gristhorpe’s eyes shone with a gentle love of life and a sense of compassion that would have given the Buddha himself a good run for his money.

Banks sat for a while and helped Gristhorpe work on the drystone wall. It was a project that the superintendent had started the previous summer, and it had no particular purpose. Banks had made
one or two attempts at adding pieces of stone but had at first got them the wrong way around so that the rain would have drained inwards and cracked the wall apart if a sudden frost came. Often, he
had chosen pieces that simply would not fit. Lately, however, he had improved, and he found the occasional wall-building afternoons with Gristhorpe almost as relaxing and refreshing as playing with
Brian’s train set. A silent understanding had developed between them about what stone would do and who would fix it in place.

After about fifteen minutes, Banks broke the silence: ‘I suppose you know that somebody dismantled one of these walls last night to cover a body?’

‘Aye,’ Gristhorpe said, ‘I’ve heard. Come on inside, Alan, and I’ll make a pot of tea. If I’m not mistaken there are still a few of Mrs Hawkins’s scones
left, too.’ He rhymed ‘scones’ with ‘on’, not, like a southerner, with ‘own’.

They settled into the deep worn armchairs, and Banks cast his eyes over the bookcases that covered one entire wall from floor to ceiling. There were books on all kinds of subjects – local
lore, geology, criminology, topography, history, botany, travel – and shelves of leather-bound classics ranging from Homer, Cervantes, Rabelais and Dante to Wordsworth, Dickens, James Joyce,
W. B. Yeats and D. H. Lawrence. Jane Austen’s
Pride and Prejudice
lay on the table; the position of the bookmark indicated that Gristhorpe had almost finished it. As always when he
visited the superintendent, Banks mentally reminded himself that he should read more.

Gristhorpe’s office in Eastvale was much the same: books everywhere, and not all of them relevant to police work. He came from old dales farming stock, and his decision to join the police
after university and army service had caused trouble. Nevertheless, he had persevered, and he had also helped out on the farm in his spare time. When Gristhorpe’s father saw that his
son’s natural aptitude and capacity for hard work was getting him places, he stopped complaining and accepted the situation. Gristhorpe’s father had been sad to see the farm dwindle to
little more than a large back garden before he died, but his pride in his son’s achievement and the status it gave him locally eased him, and his death was without acrimony.

Gristhorpe had told Banks all this during their frequent meetings, usually over a good single malt whisky after a wall-building session. The older man’s candour, along with more practical
advice, made Banks feel like an apprentice, or protégé. Their relationship had developed this way since the Gallows View affair, Banks’s dramatic introduction to northern police
work. As he told what he knew about the Steadman murder, he was alert for any tips that might come his way.

‘It’s not going to be easy,’ Gristhorpe pronounced after a short silence. ‘And I won’t say it is. For one thing, you’ve all those tourists and campers to
consider. If Steadman had an enemy from the past, it would be an ideal way of doing the job. They never keep records at campsites as far as I know. All they care about is collecting the
money.’ He nibbled at his scone and sipped strong black tea. ‘Still, the killer could be a lot closer to home. Doesn’t look like you’ve got much physical evidence, though,
does it? Somebody might have heard a car, but I doubt they’d have paid it much mind. I know that road. It swings north-east all the way over to Sattersdale. Still, I don’t suppose I
need tell you your job, Alan. First thing is to find out as much as you can about Steadman. Friends, enemies, past, the lot. Nose about the village. Talk to people. Leave the donkey work to your
men.’

‘I’m an outsider, though,’ Banks said. ‘I always will be as far as people around here are concerned. I look out of place and I sound out of place. Nobody’s going to
give much away to me.’

‘Rubbish, Alan. Look at it this way. You’re a stranger in Helmthorpe, right?’ Banks nodded. ‘People notice you. They’ll soon get to know who you are. You
don’t look like a tourist, and no villager will mistake you for one. You’re even a bit of a celebrity – at least for them as reads the papers around here. They’ll be
curious, interested in the new copper, and they’ll want to find out what makes you tick. You’ll be surprised what they’ll tell you just to see how you react.’ He chuckled.
‘Before this is all over you’ll feel like a bloody priest in his confessional.’

Banks smiled. ‘I was brought up C. of E.’

‘Ah. We’re all Methodists or Baptists hereabouts,’ Gristhorpe said. ‘But some of us are more lapsed than others, and most of the daftest sects – your Sandemanians,
for example – have all but disappeared.’

‘I hope I won’t have the same obligation to secrecy as a priest.’

‘Heavens, no!’ Gristhorpe exclaimed. ‘I want to know everything you find out. You’ve no idea what an opportunity this is for me to catch up on Helmthorpe gossip. But
seriously, Alan, do you see what I mean? Take Weaver. He’s a pleasant enough lad. Trustworthy, competent, thorough. But as far as the villagers are concerned he’s a fixture, boring as a
rainy day – though I shouldn’t make that comparison around these parts. See what I mean, though? Half the womenfolk in Helmthorpe probably changed his nappies when he was a nipper, and
most of the menfolk’ve given him a clip around the ear once or twice. Nobody will tell Weaver anything. They won’t confide in him. There’s nothing in it for them. But you . . .
You’re the exotic newcomer, the father confessor.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ Banks said, finishing his tea. ‘I was thinking of dropping in at the Bridge tonight; Weaver told me Steadman used to drink there regularly with a
few friends.’

Gristhorpe scratched his pitted red chin, and his bushy eyebrows merged in a furrow of concentration. ‘Good idea,’ he said. ‘Imagine it’ll be a bit of a wake tonight.
Good time to pick up stray words. They’ll all know who’s been killed, of course, and probably how. Would that chap Barker be one of Steadman’s cronies, by the way?’

‘Yes. Jack Barker, the writer.’

‘Writer be damned!’ Gristhorpe almost choked on a mouthful of scone. ‘Just because he makes money from the claptrap doesn’t mean he’s a writer. Anyway, it’s a
good idea. You’ll get something out of them, however useless it might seem at first. What time is it now?’

‘Ten to six.’

‘Supper?’

‘Yes, any time you’re ready.’ Banks had almost forgotten how hungry he was.

‘It won’t be owt special, you know,’ Gristhorpe called out as he went to the kitchen. ‘Just salad and leftover roast beef.’

Sally and Kevin raced the last few yards and collapsed, panting, by Ross Ghyll. They were high up on Tetchley Fell, on the south side of the dale, having walked to the source
of one of the numerous becks that meander their way down to the Swain.

When they had caught their breath, Kevin kissed her, thrusting his tongue deep into her mouth, and they lay down together on the pale springy grass. He touched her breasts, felt the nipples
harden through thin cotton, and slowly let his hand slide down between her legs. She was wearing jeans, and the pressure of the thick seam against her sex made her tingle with excitement. But she
broke free and sat up, distracted.

‘I’m going to tell the police, Kevin,’ she said.

‘B-but we—’

She laughed and hit him lightly on the arm. ‘Not about this, stupid. About last night.’

‘But then they’ll know about us,’ he protested. ‘They’ll be sure to tell.’

‘No, they won’t. Why should they? You can tell them things in confidence, you know, like Catholics and priests. Besides,’ she added, twirling a strand of hair between her slim
fingers, ‘my mum and dad know we were together. I told them we were at your house and we forgot about the time.’

‘I just don’t think we should get involved, that’s all. It could be dangerous, being a witness.’

‘Oh, don’t be daft. I think it’s rather exciting, myself.’

‘You would. What if the killer thinks we really saw something?’

‘Nobody knew we were up there. Nobody saw us.’

‘How do you know?’

‘It was dark, and we were too far away.’

‘He might see you going to the police station.’

Sally laughed. ‘I’ll wear a disguise, then. Now you’re being really silly. There’s nothing to be afraid of.’

Kevin fell silent. Once again he felt he’d been outwitted and outreasoned by a mere girl.

‘I won’t tell them who you are if it bothers you so much,’ Sally went on, reassuring him. ‘I’ll just say that I was with a friend I’d rather not name.
Talking.’

‘Talking!’ Kevin laughed and reached for her. ‘Is that what we were doing?’

Sally giggled. His hand was on her breast again, but she pushed him away and stood up, brushing the grass from her jeans.

‘Come on, Sally,’ he pleaded. ‘You know you want it as much as I do.’

‘Do I now?’

‘Yes.’ He made a grab for her ankle but she stepped nimbly aside.

‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘But not now. Especially with someone who’s ashamed to admit he was with me last night. Besides, I have to be home for tea or my dad’ll kill
me.’ And she was off like the wind. Sighing, Kevin got to his feet and plodded along behind her.